


Paper Bag

by skatedaddy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anorexia, Body Dysmorphic Disorder, Depression, Eating Disorders, Friendship, M/M, Multi, Self-Esteem Issues, fuck jk rowling tho, no ron bashing in this fic he is a loveable idiot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27681794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skatedaddy/pseuds/skatedaddy
Summary: Takes place in their sixth year. Draco struggles with an eating disorder.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 7
Kudos: 50





	Paper Bag

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Back at it again. Instead of working on any of my already-published fics that need chapter updates, I decided to take on a new project because I’m just that kind of guy. (I hate myself.) This fic is 1000% a self indulgent vent fic because I have been feeling particularly miserable lately & it’s nice to project sometimes. I’m very rusty with my writing and don’t have a beta so bare with me; hopefully it doesn’t turn out too bad :x 
> 
> If you do happen to like my story please leave a review so I know you read it and can hear your thoughts :o) my main reason for abandoning fics is lack of feedback bc I get depressed when I feel like I’m writing into the void so if you like the story and want me to continue let me know! <3 
> 
> i'm just gonna put a general trigger warning on this whole story and tell you to expect the kind of triggers that go along with EDs/poor mental health. if you're easily triggered by self destructive behaviors this story aint it chief.

Draco looks in the mirror and can’t stand what he sees. 

Everything about his reflection makes him want to scream. Scream, cry, beat the glass with his fist until it shatters and his hands are sticky with blood. It feels unreal that the reflection staring back is really him. Has he always been this doughy? Has his skin always looked like it was overstuffed and ready to burst? He looks like a corpse, he thinks to himself. Bloated and sickly pale. Like a body that had been floating in the lake for a few days, being nibbled at by the fish and whatever nasty creatures lurked in the murky water. 

With the taste of bile on the back of his tongue, and a growing knot in his stomach, Draco slowly and mechanically slides on his school clothes; the uniform feels too tight and too loose in all the wrong places. He turns slowly in front of the mirror, the sketch of a deep frown on his face. Had he always looked so _dumpy_ in his robes? If so, cripes, what an embarrassment. He thinks back to his first year at Hogwarts- had he ever looked at himself in the mirror with such disgust? He couldn’t remember. Didn’t think so. To the best he could remember, he didn’t start really _looking_ at himself until his third year, when one of the older Slytherin boys had learned close to his ear with a sly grin on his face and whispered to him: “you’re pretty.”

It was the first time Draco had ever been called that, and that night he had spent a long time in front of the mirror, studying himself carefully. He tried to see what that older boy had been talking about- he had always found his features incredibly _average._ He had cold steel eyes, a pouty mouth, a slender nose. His face still had some of its baby fluff. He could be attractive, he supposed, if he put a little effort into it. There was potential there, maybe. 

Draco found charms to make his eyelashes grow a bit longer and to make his teeth shine a bit brighter and for a while he actually felt halfway confident. He liked feeling attractive; liked to have people look at him like he was special. In his fourth year Draco dates Pansy Parkinson for a while before realizing that girls simply aren’t his thing. So he sees a couple guys from his house, and even one from Ravenclaw. It wasn’t until his fifth year that Draco really started to become conscious of his body. He had been seeing Marcus Flint somewhat seriously for a few months, and had learned that Flint had somewhat of a temper when it came to people he felt comfortable with. The two would often get into arguments that mostly consisted of Marcus hurling whatever cutting insults he could come up with at Draco, and Draco clenching his jaw and taking it. Marcus was the first one that got Draco really thinking about his body; Draco still remembers the first time the boy had bit out at Draco that he was a “fat little shrew”. He still remembers the first time he had called him “disgusting”. Even after they stopped seeing each other, the things Flint had said stuck with Draco. When he looked in the mirror, he no longer liked what he saw. All his clothes felt too tight. His skin felt wrong. Anxiety always buzzed in his chest, sometimes bad enough that he wished to just set himself on fire and be done with it. 

Towards the end of his fifth year, Draco had started skipping meals. Nothing terribly intense at first- a few skipped lunches or dinners here and there. But when he went home for the summer, it got much worse. Draco had mostly taken to hiding in his room, given the shady sorts of company his father often had over. It became a game to him to see how many days he could go without eating. It was fun, to see how far he could push himself. Usually he wouldn’t eat until his mother came in and forced him to, her lips pressed tight with worry. She would check him for a fever, get him laid in bed under the blankets with a cool washcloth on his forehead. She wanted him to be sick- not in any terrible sort of way, of course. But the idea of her son having a cold was a far easier pill to swallow than the idea of her son intentionally starving himself. 

When Draco returned for his sixth year, he was incredibly thin. He did not see it this way. Where others saw bony wrists and fragile looking fingers, Draco saw what he deemed as “Hamburger Hands”. Where others saw a gaunt and sharp face, Draco saw round gooey baby fat. Still, nobody seemed to put too much thought into his weight or appearance. With N.E.W.T.S to study for, and the ever-impending threat of a war, people were too much in their own heads to bother thinking about the boy who sat in the Great Hall and stirred the food around his plate without actually eating it.

Except, of course, for Pansy Parkinson. Pansy is the one who knocks on the door of Draco’s dorm that morning, tearing Draco out of his thoughts.

“Draco, are you coming or not?” Her voice sounds a bit inpatient. Draco had almost forgotten that she was waiting for him. “I’m starving. Aren’t you starving?”

“I’m coming, will you calm down?,” Draco frowns at himself one more time in the mirror before grabbing his bag and wand. When he opens the door, Pansy is tapping her foot restlessly and most of the other Slytherin’s have already left the dorms.

Draco sits at the Great Hall for breakfast like any other day. He puts food on his plate, which he picks at idly without eating while he tries to throw himself into a conversation with whoever’s willing to listen to him- usually Blaise or Pansy. He’s in the middle of arguing with Blaise over a Quidditch play when Pansy tells him, “Draco, dear, you simply _have_ to try this.” and plops a fresh cinnamon roll down onto his plate. There’s still steam coming off it, and the glaze is still melting a little down the side. The scent of cinnamon and dough and icing hits Draco’s nose and makes his stomach start to churn. He stares at the cinnamon roll, very much aware that both Pansy and Blaise are watching him. Blaise looks more curious than anything, but Pansy tries too hard to look bored. Draco knows that this is a very calculated move. 

Feeling suddenly nauseous, Draco quickly weighs his options: he could not eat it, and give Pansy even more of a reason to think somethings wrong and interrogate him. Or he could eat the damn thing and end up looking like a cinnamon bun himself. He thinks of all the calories and carbs and sugars in that one little roll and wants to throw the damn thing across the Great Hall. But he can’t throw the damn thing and he has to do something soon because Pansy and Blaise are still watching him and nobody’s said anything and now it’s just getting awkward. 

He picks at the bun, rips a piece off, and pops it into his mouth. It’s hot enough to burn his tongue- if he could even remember how to properly eat, he probably would have blown on it. He sucks in some air to cool it down and starts chewing. It’s too thick, it feels like paste in his mouth. It’s too sweet. Too much cinnamon. Too much of everything. When he swallows, it goes down slowly, feels like it’s stuck in his throat. He quickly takes a sip of water. Pansy is looking at him expectantly. 

“It’s hot,” he comments. 

“Well blow on it, you ponce,” she retorts. “It’s delicious.”

“I’m not a fan of sweets,” Draco pushes the plate away slightly, turning his nose up. 

“Oh, bull. You’ve always loved sweets.” 

“Well I don’t anymore. My palettes matured.” Pansy snorts at this. 

“Real mature, to not eat anything.” Pansy returns to her breakfast then, leaving Draco with his face flushing red out of embarrassment. Unsure of what to do given the tense turn of events, Blaise clears his throat awkwardly. 

“I still have some bacon left, if you want some. Not sweet at all.” Draco pictures bacon, being fried in its own grease, and wants to vomit. He pictures the grease coagulating into fat inside his body, in his stomach and thighs, and it’s too much. 

“I have to go to the bathroom,” he announces very suddenly, and stands up. Before anyone has a chance to stop him he’s all but running out of the Great Hall. Pansy and Blaise stare sadly at his back as he leaves. From a few tables away, the Golden Trio also watches. 

“What do you suppose all that was about? Ron questions. Hermoine shrugs, taking a sip of orange juice, and says:

“Looks like they had a fight.” 

“Some fight it must have been,” Harry comments. “Maybe they finally called him out for being a little bastard?”

“Doubt it,” Ron snorts. “Pansy and Blaise? They’re both little bastards themselves.” 

“Pansy’s not so bad,” says Hermoine absently. When they both give her a strange look, she blushes and flusters. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. We’ve studied together for History of Magic. She’s actually very smart.”

“Oh, yuck, they’ve turned you,” Ron scrunches up his face in disgust. 

“Oh please,” Hermoine rolls her eyes. 

“You don’t think Malfoy’s up to something, do you?” Harry questions. He keeps glancing over at the now empty spot at the Slytherin table between Pansy and Blaise. The two had gone back to their meals and were poking at their food in gloomy silence. 

“Probably,” Ron speculates. “When’s Malfoy not up to something? He’s probably out there somewhere starting a rumor that you have lice as we speak.” 

“Mhm, probably,” Harry clicks his tongue and thinks for a moment. “You don’t think he’s planning to sabotage us at the next match, do you?”

“The next quidditch match?” Harry rolls his eyes at this.

“No, Ron, the next tennis match.”

Ron ponders this for a minute. “Well, maybe. I mean, with Malfoy, you never know.”

“Right,” Harry sighs. “You never do know.” There was a growing unease in Harry’s gut, one he couldn’t quite place. Something about Malfoy just felt _off_ , and in that moment Harry silently swore to himself that he would find out what it was. 

\---

Draco leaves the Great Hall and finds himself in the nearest bathroom. He quickly and quietly mutters a spell, pointing his wand at himself, and then he is suddenly and violently throwing up the undigested chunk of cinnamon bun that had been sitting heavily in his gut. He hacks a few more times after that, the spell squeezing his stomach and triggering his gag reflex. When he finishes, he wipes the back of his mouth with his hand and goes to splash cold water on his face. 

Throwing up wasn’t really his thing, honestly. He never enjoyed it- but that cinnamon bun had to go. There was no way Draco would have been able to sit through class with that thing sitting in his stomach, slowly digesting. It would have been too uncomfortable. He does a cleaning spell on his teeth, glad when the taste of half chewed food and bile is replaced with tingly mint. 

Draco stays in the bathroom for as long as he can, not wanting to go back to the Great Hall and face Pansy and Blaise but not really having anywhere else to go, either. He bides his time by splashing cold water on his face, as if he can rinse away the ruddiesness of his cheeks caused by the vomiting, or the dark circles weighing down his eyes. He picks apart his appearance in front of the mirror: face too chubby, neck too wide, eyes too close together, nose too long, lips asymmetrical. Gross gelatin body. Skin too pale, blue veins on the back of his hands too prominent. He felt gross. 

When breakfast was over, he slid quietly into his first class and sat next to Pansy and Blaise as if nothing happened. Blaise side eyes him but says nothing; Pansy leans close to him and asks, “So, how was the bathroom?”

Draco shrugs, keeping his face as neutral as possible. “It was fine.”

“Spent a while in there, huh?”

“Yes, well, my stomach hurts,” he responds dryly, and is grateful that any more questions Pansy might have had are interrupted by Flitwick clearing his throat and beginning the lecture. Draco can feel Pansy still watching him, but he keeps his focus on Flitwick like Flitwick is teaching the Lesson of his Lifetime. What Draco doesn’t know is that from across the classroom, seated at his own desk, Harry Potter is watching him too. 

\-----

Draco had done a wonderful job at avoiding food the past several weeks, and he feels rather proud of himself. Of course, it’s still not enough. There’s still too much fat on his body that he wants to melt off. He still has a long way to go.

Draco found it easy enough to get away with skipping lunch, and dinner half the time, by staying in the library and studying. He overdramaticizes the stress of his schoolwork to Pansy so that she’ll leave him alone- she’s got plenty of her own stress over schoolwork. Sixth year was by no means a walk in the park, and it would only get harder from here. She did her own fair share of studying in the library- sometimes, to Draco’s bemusement, with Hermoine Granger. During breakfast, or times where someone is actually paying attention to what Draco is eating, he’ll chew food up in his mouth and subtly spit it into a napkin and vanish it when nobody's looking. It’s a decent enough system; seems to fool Pansy and Blaise, at least.

Harry also notices that Draco doesn’t eat much of his food. It’s a bit disturbing to him, given how small Draco was already. The boy looked like he was ready to wither up and die any day now. Harry wonders if maybe Draco is ill: it honestly does not cross his mind at first that the Slytherin could be intentionally starving himself. Draco rattles around like a skeleton, and Harry can’t help but think that the boy _must_ be sick. It’s the easiest explanation, of course- and in a way he’s right, because Draco is sick, very sick, but not with a bug or a flu or anything else that Harry might think. 

After a while, Draco starts to notice Harry staring at him. For a while he glares back, but eventually he stops even looking in Harry’s direction. Doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, Harry supposes. 

\-----

“We’ve got to say something,” Pansy tells Blaise. The two are tucked away in a quiet corner of the Slytherin Common room, playing a game of chess. “It’s getting worse.” Blaise studies the board for a moment, moves one of his pieces, and sighs. 

“I know that, Pans.” 

“He’s hardly eaten in days. Just spits all his food into his napkin.” 

“He’s not going to respond well when you bring this up, you know.” Blaise is right. Draco was known to get extremely defensive whenever his eating habits were brought into question- typically even a hint of the conversation turning in that direction would have Draco storming off and not speaking to them for the rest of the day. 

“No kidding, Blaise,” Pansy’s voice is edged with annoyance. She runs a hand through her hair, pulling her bangs back away from her face. “He’s like a damn child, I swear.”

“Well, even children know how to feed themselves,” Blaise comments. He doesn’t mean it to be mean- it’s just a fact. For a moment there’s silence, and then Pansy pushes one of her chess pieces across the board and asks, 

“Why do you suppose he’s doing this, anyway? He’s already thin as a rake.” 

“I’m not quite sure he sees it that way,” Blaise responds with a shrug. “He’s always been a bit fixated on his looks.”

“Well, it’s a shame. He’s such a pretty boy.” Pansy observes forlornly. Blaise snorts, and Pansy gives him a pressed look. “What?”

“Nothing,” Blaise says. “Just that you’re right. He is rather pretty for a boy.” Pansy opens her mouth to say something else, but snaps it shut when she sees Draco heading towards them.

“Can I play the winner?” Draco questions with a quirk of his eyebrow, sitting down next to Blaise and playfully resting his head on his shoulder. 

“Sure,” Pansy says, and then laughs. “Oh, I’ve forgotten who’s turn it is. Is it my turn?” 

“You wish it was your turn,” Blaise chuckles, then moves another one of his pieces. For a while Draco watches the two play in silence, head still resting on Blaise’s shoulder, until finally Blaise (much to his dismay) loses, and Draco takes his spot across from Pansy. 

It’s been a while since Draco had played chess, and halfway through he already knows he’s got no good chance of winning this thing. Pansy was kicking his ass- absolutely brutalizing him. It was alright though- there was enough playful banter between the two of them that it took the piss out of losing. Draco was actually having a pretty decent time until Pansy moves one of her knights, leans back a bit in her seat, and tells Draco: “We were talking about you a bit, before you showed up.”

“Oh?” Draco looks from her to Blaise, who’s suddenly clenched his jaw and is giving her a strange look. “What were you saying?”

“Just that you’ve seemed to have lost an awful amount of weight lately,” Pansy keeps her voice calm and casual. She stares at Draco and waits for him to make his move. 

For a second, Draco waffles. He’s not sure what to say. Pansy is a very _calculated_ person, and he knows this. Pansy wouldn’t bring up his weight if it wasn’t _suspicious_ to her. He struggled for a moment to come up with something to say, before finally: “Well, that’s good I suppose. I’ve been trying to lose a little.” He moves one of his chess pieces across the board, and Pansy clicks her tongue. 

“Yes, well, we’ve noticed that you’ve been trying too. Can’t really say it’s the healthiest thing, not eating… And what do you need to lose weight for? You’ve always been as thin as a broom.” 

Draco laughs humorlessly at this. “Sure, Pans.” 

“She’s right, you know,” Blaise interjects. “I don’t know how you’ve got it in your head that you’re big-”

“Why are we talking about this?” snaps Draco. He’s staring furiously at the chessboard and refusing to look at either of them. “So I’ve lost some weight, who cares? It’s your move, Pans.” 

“What you’re doing isn’t healthy, Draco.” Pansy says flatly. 

“I’m not _doing_ anything,” he sneers back at her. “I eat plenty.”

“Oh please,” Pansy rolls her eyes. “Your napkin eats more than you do. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling when you _starve_ yourself day in and day out, but-” she doesn’t have time to finish her thought because Draco is slamming back in his seat and standing up from the table. 

“I’m done. You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about, you’re so fucking stupid Pansy.” 

“Hey, you don’t have to talk to her like that mate. We’re just trying to help,” Blaise says defensively. 

“Well save your bloody help for someone who needs it, because I’m fine!” Draco hisses. “Some friends I have, talking about me behind my back! What else did you say about me when I wasn’t around?”

“Always so defensive,” Pansy tuts. “Maybe if you had something to eat you’d calm down a little.” Draco’s already reddening face gets even redder at this, and suddenly he’s fighting to bite back tears.

“You two can both go to hell,” he spits at them, before storming off to his dorm, leaving the two in awkward silence with a half played game of chess. 

“So,” Blaise finally says after a moment, “that went well.” 

“Yeah,” Pansy lets out a half-hearted laugh. “Sure did. I Guess we’ll just have to keep trying.”


End file.
